Window of Desire

Every day innumerable naive women are duped by men like my husband. "We will only be here for a year or two", he promised as he installed me in this diminutive apartment in a hundred year old main street building formerly known as General Store. Once an upper level storeroom and then converted into living quarters, the building should have been condemned and demolished years ago. Living in an old building is a hard existence; my days are filled with endless despair and repair. The roof leaks, it is cold and drafty and there are bats in the belfry. Seriously.

The space is partitioned into individual rooms. My windowless bedroom measures 8  feet by 9 feet. I have known larger closets. Our queen size bed fills the space. To open the closet door one must first shove the bed to the opposite wall. Privacy is unknown; I cannot close the bedroom door. A pair of thrift store, two drawer chests completes the room décor. These treasured finds were the only tables petite enough to squeeze between the bed and wall. I must move crablike, shuffling sideways around the bed to get about the room. I tell myself, "Someday you'll look back at this and laugh". Really.

We own another home, the rural farmhouse we are remodeling. That project has been an extended gloomy journey towards a bogus dream. Five years later, I still exist in this cell. Since apartment living was only temporary and funds were budgeted for the new home, I purchased closeouts and clearance bedding, nothing matches. Our pillows are aged and flat. In the winter I freeze. The cold brick wall against my head has no insulation from the frigid north wind. It will be months before the farmhouse is finished. If ever.

The farmhouse is our dream. A modest Arts and Craft bungalow, it is just right for an aging, childless couple. It is destined to be our retirement home. Our place in the county, it is a quiet retreat where we can spend those golden years together. We have saved for this remodeling project but it is never enough. We build as the funds come in, doing much of the work ourselves. Every project takes more than the budget allotted. Another year passes. So depressing.

Our next bedroom will be spacious. Two multi-paned windows offer comforting pastoral scenes. One overlooks the meadow where my beloved horses graze. You can see the pond and watch the Red-winged Blackbirds flutter and spat amongst the cattail reeds. Diffused northern light, filtering in the other window, glances off the hardwood floor. The ceiling is high for an older home. The walls are solid plaster. Peaceful, romantic, it is a room for lovers and dreams. Enchanting.

We continue to toil, ever closer to our vision. The brown stained wallpaper has been removed and the house rewired. Brick by crumbling brick, the decaying chimney is coming down. The plumbing is nearly finished. A wall will be removed and another wall is being framed. We argue over the kitchen cabinets and the color of the tile. He prefers natural hickory and I like painted pine. The bathroom is next. New toilet, sink and vanity, secure in their cardboard wrapping, like holiday presents waiting to be revealed. Meager paint chips taped to the walls wait patiently in every room. Endless decisions.

Exhausted, I return to this horrid apartment at the end of each day. Nightly I dream of snuggling deep within a luxurious pillow topped mattress, enveloped in warm, soft down comforters.  I picture my head resting gently, embraced by billowing feather pillows. There is actually a headboard and footboard on my bed. I have a dresser, mirror and nightstands again. Traditional canvases grace my walls and beautiful rugs kiss the floorboards. Every morning I wake up wondering if I will ever possess that stunning bedroom; a relaxing, private retreat with spacious windows and rich drapery. My husband says we will be in our farmhouse by the first of the year. Truly.